LL Barkat… one of my word-heroes… shares here today, about a special moment with her daughter–a moment almost lost, but then heard for what it was, and sung into time.
“Where’s the stapler?” she asks.
I answer with my usual reminder, “You guys used the stapler and never put it back. You’ll have to find something else.” I imagine the black stapler is cavorting with dust bunnies under my younger daughter’s bed, along with The Magic Treehouse: Christmas in Camelot, which I tell the librarian we have lost but will find someday in the abyss.
My daughter looks at the ceiling, frowns, and walks away.
I am at the dining room table. Sunset-golden walls reflect morning light. I’m sipping a green tea I bought on the streets of Granada, Spain. It is called “Te de Carpi.” My favorite part is the lavender-blue petals. What kind of flower is that, nestled in full-leaved green tea?
Not ten minutes ago, I took a slight teaspoon of the mix and placed it in the tea basket to brew. I leaned to take in the fragrance, light and promising, then stared at the dwindling jar of leaves. It won’t be long now. And I don’t know that I’ll ever walk those streets again.
“Look.” My daughter has returned. Her small hand pushes a collection of papers in front of my face. The papers are connected by a piece of green yarn, the same pearly-slate-green as my tea leaves. “Do you know why I used green?” she asks.
I want to tell her to go away. I am sipping my morning tea. I like the quiet of the moment.
“Why?” I entertain her question.
“Because of the song.”
She has found the lyrics to Greensleeves on the Internet, copied them into Microsoft Word, and printed them on two pages now connected by a small piece of green yarn. The circlet of yarn should be smaller, I think. There is too much space and the pages hang apart as if they are possibly not together at all. A staple would be better.
“Can I sing it for you?” she asks.
My morning tea is officially interrupted now. I acquiesce. “Sure, sing it to me.” She sings the first verse and the chorus, then nods in my direction and points to the next verse. I sing and am surprised at how much our voices sound alike, though hers is softer, younger, sweet in the way that only a child’s voice can be. And now we have decided, without planning it ahead of time, that we will sing this song together taking turns.
The last verse is mine. While she is finishing her chorus I whisper, “Let’s sing it together.” We do. Her voice and mine, loosely held in harmony, as if by a pearl-green circlet of yarn.
Sonia’s Dulcimer (on which she loves to play ‘Greensleeves’), photo by L.L. Barkat.
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Thank you to all who participated in this week’s Imperfect Prose…. Still working my way through them.
Also wanting to humbly share, this place we gather at, it was one of 10 blogs chosen from 1,800 to be highlighted at The High Calling–see here. May your weekend be full of Him. e.